Local Man Contemplates Life Choices
by lannistersdebt
Summary: Quite heavily.


Written for QLFC Round 8.  
Wigtown Wanderers

Beater 1

Prompt: Nine of Wands (reversed) - exhaustion, fatigue, questioning motivations

Additional prompts: [action] to spill something/knock something over, [season] winter, [word] immune

Warnings: very down Snape with a bit of a suicidal thought

* * *

"I can't imagine how it must be for her, the poor dear...working under the man who _killed him_! And if that's not bad enough, she didn't even get to keep her title as deputy headmistress!" The woman's outrage was obvious, even through her whispered words, and her companions murmured their agreement. "The poor dear...at least she retained her position as Head of House. He could have taken that from her, too."

From his spot among the lengthening shadows toward the back of the pub, Snape glared toward them. The witches had no idea he was there or they'd hardly be speaking so freely. His jaw worked as their conversation continued, carrying on about the things they were hearing from students and what they read in the _Daily Prophet_. Some of what they said was true. Most was not.

"You look like you could use another drink, Headmaster." Rosmerta had made her way down to where he sat at the bar quietly and with a bottle of firewhiskey already in her hand. At his nod, she grabbed his tumbler and poured—two shots, neat, the same as always. She set the bottle down on the counter and leaned forward a bit as she handed the glass back to him. "You've been listening to them, haven't you?"

"Hard not to hear them, really."

"You could ignore them. They're just words."

Snape shook his head, and when he spoke, his tone was weary, "Even Death Eaters aren't entirely immune to a sharp tongue, Rosmerta."

He picked up his drink, drained the glass, and set it back down. The galleon he sat beside it glimmered briefly in the dark before it disappeared, swept into the landlady's pocket, rather like his hope that things would work out in the end. With their fate in Potter's hands, they were most certainly doomed.

"You can go out back, if you want. You know the way by now." She inclined her head towards the break in the bar and her eyes drifted from him to the window at the front where she'd spied a familiar figure bundled up tightly, the frayed edges of her scarf dancing like tiny snakes in a strong gust that sent snow swirling as well. "Ah, and a friendly face will be waiting for you outside."

Silently, he rose and stepped to the back where he pulled on his coat, thankful for the opportunity to go undetected by the group of women.

Outside the air was cold enough to take his breath away for a moment; warmed by the alcohol and the roaring fire inside the pub, he'd forgotten exactly how bitter the wind was. He drew his coat tighter around him as he glanced around, wondering where the company Rosmerta mentioned was at. For a moment he saw no one, and then he heard the sound of snow crunching underfoot. Seconds later a witch came around the corner, bundled up in a deep green coat, her long blonde hair blowing every which way.

"Escaped the Manor, then?" Snape asked. Narcissa's lips turned up in a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. Her home felt like a prison and she could joke about it only so much. He could relate all too well. "Will you join me at the castle if you're finished here?"

"All done." She held up a bag from Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop, almost like she expected him to search through it. And indeed, if she were anyone else, he would. "And I'd be delighted."

They walked most of the way to the school in silence, eager to get out of the cold, and truth be told, neither really felt like talking.

* * *

He couldn't say what bothered him more. Was it the way McGonagall glared at him? The way Hagrid made it a point to ignore him? Sprout, Hooch, and Pomfrey's whispers behind him? Flitwick's sneer? Slughorn's slight quivering in the halls?

He had been prepared for it, he told Dumbledore. He didn't need them to do anything but make it through the year—no matter how much they may hate him. "I can deal with it," he said.

Now he almost regretted his words. He _could _deal with it, but he was tired of it. Tired of lying, tired of the different versions of the truth he was trying to pass off. Tired of all of it.

He opened his eyes and sighed as he looked at the witch beside him. Okay, tired of _almost _all of it. She rolled towards him, chilled now that the fire had died down, and he gathered her close to him despite the heaviness throughout his body. Even his bones were tired.

"Something's bothering you." Her voice was quiet, but he felt almost like she was yelling.

"It's nothing."

"Liar."

His heart began to race, as it did so often now when he thought about all that was at stake. Was that why he felt as though he'd never get enough rest, that it'd be easier to just let one of them kill him now to end the constant churning of his mind? Was it going to be worth it? Was he doing this for the right reasons?

Would it even make a difference?

"Severus, I didn't mean…" she trailed off for a moment, and he took advantage of her silence to kiss her. "I shouldn't have said that."

"Narcissa Malfoy, apologizing for calling someone out on the truth? I never thought I'd see the day." He gave her a grim half smile. "I'm afraid I can't discuss it."

But oh, how he longed to.

He wanted to tell her how he didn't deserve the title of murderer and how much it had stung when McGonagall had spit the word at him upon his return to the school at the start of term in September. He wanted to tell her about everything he had done to try to help Potter, all the lies he had told the Dark Lord… and how many of his sins he had left out when reporting to the Order. He wanted to tell her how deeply his tiredness had sunk in, down to his very core, and how he wasn't sure how much longer he could go on. How it had been easier when Dumbledore was still alive, because at least then he had one person who knew the truth—and a host of others who didn't know everything, but knew enough that he was one of them.

And for a moment, he opened his mouth to do just that. Narcissa looked at him expectantly and he averted his gaze, feigning a yawn. "Nightcap?"

"I'd love one." She sat up, propping pillows behind her and pulling the sheets with her. Her eyes followed his movements around his quarters, still graceful but lacking the quiet ease they usually did, and leaned forward in concern as he knocked over the first glass of firewhiskey he poured. The liquid spread over the edge of the table and dripped to the floor, the glass crashing down just a second behind it and shattering. "How many did you have at the Three Broomsticks?"

"I'm not drunk." _Entirely. _

"Severus." She waited until he looked up from casting scourgify. "You didn't answer the question."

"Three." He met her eyes, expecting to find them cold as glaciers, and was surprised at the softness in them. "That's not the problem," he muttered, his voice almost as bitter as the January wind whipping at the stone walls of the castle.

"Then what is?"

He poured their drinks—a shot each this time—and handed a glass to her. He lifted his to his lips and tipped it back, feeling the familiar burn down his throat and warmth through his limbs that made the heaviness so much more tolerable. When she finished her own drink, he took the glass from her, set both of them over on the table next to the bottle, and moved back to the bed. He kissed her, tasted the drink on her lips, and sighed against them.

He wanted to tell her. He wanted to keep his word. He wanted to be rid of this tiredness that even sleep could not erase.

And yet, despite questioning himself and what he was doing this all for, he knew he wouldn't.


End file.
